


Everybody's Gotta Start Somewhere

by baku_midnight



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, First Dates, Fluff, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Stream of Consciousness, The Hilltop (Walking Dead)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-23 10:01:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10717191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baku_midnight/pseuds/baku_midnight
Summary: Just since coming to Virginia, he’d seen what he called home ransacked and burned and blasted wide apart no less than thrice. He’d fired an RPG at a gas-filled lake, only half-certain that the flames would not engulf him as well as the walkers that circled the pond. He’d sprinted into a clutch of enemy soldiers, fully expecting to be outflanked the second his fist connected with Dwight’s scheming chin, only to find Jesus Rovia bounding into the space at his side, fighting off dead and living alike in his aid.This should be a piece of cake in comparison. So why did his mouth feel so dry, and his stomach like it was tied in a thousand knots?*Daryl decides to ask Jesus out. Illustrated by me.





	Everybody's Gotta Start Somewhere

Daylight hung over Hilltop, an indolent haze coming with it as dew evaporated quickly from the grass. Daryl’d spent two months here, now, but it seemed like years considering everything he’d done and seen. An ultimate bloody clash with the Saviours had resulted in an uneasy truce that felt like it could snap at any minute. Second and tertiary battles took place at Hilltop, its massive walls creaking and cracking beneath the barrage of bodies and bullets hitting wood and metal. Many were injured or died in the hostilities, and Daryl had Rick to thank for pulling them out of what could’ve been a bloody gulag of rotting flesh and carnage. Negan was among the retreated, gone into hiding to lick his wounds and gather those loyal to him for another charge. The three settlements remained united, now well-armed and ready for his return.

 

It wasn’t just bloodshed, though. Daryl had seen so many things. Men and women came out from the safety of their homes to put their lives on the line for something bigger, under the careful teachings of Rosita with her rifle and machete, and Carl with his handgun held confidently up to his remaining eye. Children ran around the town, ducking in and out and behind buildings, playing hide and seek just like Daryl used to when he was a child. Babies were born at Hilltop—Jesus had said they were on their way, but Daryl didn’t exactly believe it until he saw it for himself, little lives suddenly appearing where none were before, their noises unfamiliar and strangely welcome in the dark nights on the ranch property.

 

Maggie took over Hilltop with a mix of grace and medieval wrath, taking absolutely none of Gregory’s shit after the man pulled a knife on her in the middle of the day and tried to quickly pawn it off as a mistake. Daryl was glad to see the man go, and he knew that Jesus was too, despite a tempered response to the news. Jesus adored Maggie, and she appreciated him immediately, and Daryl couldn’t help but wonder if they could’ve been best friends in the world before. Meeting in college, spending evenings sipping wine and chatting about worldly issues far beyond Daryl’s reckoning. He just knew that he wouldn’t’ve been anywhere _near_ the two of them back before.

 

On the other hand, now, in this world, Jesus _was_ near him, all the time, to the point that even in his absence, Daryl felt him. When Daryl walked, Jesus followed. Just over his shoulder, always supporting him. “In his corner”, as his brother used to say. Partnering up on runs started as just a convenience and, maybe, a small part of Daryl wanted to bring Jesus into the group, teach him the ropes, so to speak. He felt like he owed the guy something, for all of the endless good deeds he did—nothing short of giving the clothes off of his back, after all. But it grew to be automatic, eventually, gravitating over to Jesus or Jesus gravitating over to him, and Daryl knew why.

 

He wasn’t an idiot, at least not about his own feelings. Daryl knew the difference between looking at someone and feeling a kindred spirit greet you behind their eyes, and sharing space with someone for just a few minutes and feeling your heart plummet through your stomach and your brain practically wander out the door, leaving you shaking in your boots because there’s something there, something real and honest-to-God and you can’t just close your eyes and make it go away. He knew what that _something_ was and, being a Dixon, his first response was to run and/or mock the ever-loving hell out of it. _He doesn’t want you, no one does_ , a voice in Daryl’s mind taunted, but he tried his best to ignore it and think about what it meant to continue to share living space with someone he clearly had feelings for.

 

Especially when that someone came leaping out of nowhere and holding him like he was the most precious thing on earth.

 

A few days past, a routine trip to Alexandria and back for supplies went south when a group of Saviours, young and jittery and armed to the teeth, caught them across a narrow stretch of road flanked with trees. Thin birches and ashes made up a criss-crossed fence through which they fired, with Daryl, Aaron and a few others returning fire until eventually the clutch of villains fled, shouting their defeat. Daryl went away with a bruised shin for his effort, landing hard on a protruding root when he dove into position to shoot. For the most part, it only delayed their passage a little, but when they got to Hilltop with the supplies, the waiting party was nearly in hysterics.

 

Jesus came running up the centre of the market, calling Daryl’s name, then _leaping_ on him when he reached him, wrapping arms around his shoulders and squeezing tight. He pulled back enough to remain in the circle made by Daryl’s hesitant arms, patting down his shoulders, arms, and chest, checking for wounds and letting out a sigh of relief to find the blood on his shirt belonged to walkers and not the man himself.

 

Fortunately there was enough of a party gathered around the gates to draw attention from the display, but it wasn’t until much later that Daryl was able to think soberly enough about what happened to be embarrassed. And that was kind of the final straw. The fact that, as he later stood over a counter stacked high with venison to be cleaned, his stomach started doing _flips_ rather than cooling with the comfort a hug from his family would garner, Daryl knew that he couldn’t see Paul as just a friend. No, he supposed they would have to be something more than that, a rung up the ladder. But he didn’t know exactly how to get from where they were to there, where he needed to be.

 

Puzzling it out on top of a picnic table in the courtyard was a start. A cigarette perched between his lips, Daryl twirled his blade on the surface, not even making a play at looking busy. He couldn’t concentrate on anything other than the puzzle in his head.

 

He spotted Maggie across the yard, slowly touring the stalls and greeting people as she went. Her gaze flickered up to him and Daryl looked away to try and avoid her scrutiny, in vain—not that he didn’t appreciate it, but he was worried about the conversation that might come when she saw him. She’d seen the display at the gates and was just wildfire enough to try and bring it up.

 

Maggie turned to come to him before Daryl could duck away, make himself busy in some chore that needed doing, so he simply froze there with his cigarette in his mouth, watching her approach with a slightly widened gait. Her pregnant belly was beginning to show, now; skinny as she was, it swelled out with near-life, weighing on her front.

 

Daryl snuffed out his cigarette immediately, somewhat embarrassed to even entertain the vice around her. He wasn’t embarrassed of much, especially now, after going through what his family had seen him go through, as he had kept guard over them in those shaky few weeks where they lived like beasts in the wild, looking for a home—but maybe it was how suddenly and unmistakably mature Maggie was, despite being younger than him she looked and acted a mom, and Daryl couldn’t help but blush sheepishly as he crushed the spent butt into the dirt.

 

“How’s it goin’?” Maggie asked with a casual sort of lilt, taking a seat up on the table to join Daryl. Her eyes sparkled with mischief and certainty that incensed him, made him go to battle on behalf of Hilltop in the first place. Well, a mix of that and Paul Rovia’s smug smirk, shiny gold hair blowing in the wind as he tore into the fray with two knives in place of a single gun.

 

“It’s goin’,” Daryl answered easily, shrugging his shoulder. The stretch caused him to ache just a little, the old wound occasionally heating up, reminding him he was no longer the young man he once was, able to take a tumble or a punch and wake with the same unchecked vigour the next day, laughing at the idea of a day off or a trip to the doctor.

 

“Good,” Maggie replied, lips folding into a toothless smile. Her cheeks were rosy with heat and her eyes half-moons, and Daryl could tell just by the length of her pause that she had something on her mind. It took just another beat, in which his heart hammered loudly in his ear, and then she began, “so, Jesus…”

 

“ _Christ,_ ” Daryl mumbled, ducking his head between his shoulder blades.

 

“That’s not the one I mean,” Maggie smiled. Of course she would bring it up. Everyone seemed to have their own version of the Daryl and Jesus story—or maybe it was just the women he knew, because Michonne had been side-eying him ever since he accidently let the name “Paul” slip from his lips during a meeting, much to the confusion of all those gathered around them who were used to the nickname. Enid played cute and innocent so frequently Daryl had just learned to suspect that she _always_ knew more than she let on, and Tara liked to tease him anyway, despite knowing the man in question the least.

 

“So, why don’t y’all just ask him out? He clearly adores you,” Maggie said, cutting so quickly to the chase Daryl felt the wind lift through his hair.

 

Daryl’s face got hot immediately and he put a hand up to scratch his head, obscuring his face with his wrist. He could practically see big, lily-pad green eyes and an upturned nose behind his eyes already, and wondered if the image wasn’t just always there, lately. When Jesus wasn’t there in person, scanning his face, asking if he needed anything, then hovering around expecting to just _stay_ there, he was in Daryl’s _head_ , staring at him, reassuring him, or just talking. His voice was soft and only belonged to him, and caught Daryl’s attention so quickly he was surprised that his head stayed screwed on when he snapped it up so quick whenever he heard it.

 

“’S like that with everyone,” Daryl countered, and Maggie shook her head.

 

“He’s a sweetheart with everyone, but he only adores _you,_ ” Maggie argued, and Daryl’s bashfulness doubled.

 

The fact that there was a man who lived in the same settlement as him, who was named “Jesus”, and who was so good-looking that he could be a model in one of those fashion magazines they had at the supermarket checkout, and who was interested in sparing Daryl even a second glance was so unbelievable, Daryl had reassure himself over and over again that he wasn’t just making things up in his head. He’d never thought he’d get this far, but like everything else that’d happened to him since the world fell, he was going to have to roll with it.

 

But Jesus was…something else. He was too young, too kind and too generous to waste his time getting close to an obstinate old jackass with more years than friends and even less to offer in the way of intellectual conversation. Daryl tried to explain as much to Maggie, but his voice came out cracked and airy.

 

“He’s too nice, n’ good, ’s too much,” Daryl whispered, “ain’t good for’m.”

 

Maggie smiled at him, lips pulled thin over her teeth, the grin reaching all the way up to her eyes. Her cap shielded her from the sun as she looked over at Daryl.

 

“He is nice, and good,” Maggie mused, “but he is _not_ fragile. You’re not gonna break him.”

 

Daryl didn’t answer. He knew it, knew Paul was stronger than he let on, and than he let himself believe a lot of the time. And Daryl knew he was stronger for knowing him. But that still left this big chasm between how they were and how they _could_ be. They could be together the way couples were together, bolstering each other up, supporting and leading each other. They could.

 

“Y’all want my advice?” Maggie asked, tilting her head, content to continue without a reply, “I think you should just go up to him, and ask him out. Just the two of you. Nothin’ fancy; everyone’s gotta start somewhere.”

 

“That how you and—” Daryl’s voice crumbled on the name, but he steeled himself, out of respect for his fallen friend, “how you n’ Glenn got started?”

 

“Naw, we had sex on the floor of a garage,” Maggie answered, and Daryl nearly choked. “Like I said, gotta start somewhere.”

 

Daryl flushed, unable to frame anything even remotely intimate in his mind without Jesus’s influence. Blue eyes and blushing, cherry cheeks, smooth, sun-touched skin and feathery hair pressed against his vision again. He was in deep and he hadn’t even taken the first step into the pond.

 

“Well, I best be goin’,” Maggie intoned, gesturing at the big house with her thumb. “Promised Enid I’d teach her how to bake chicken pot pie. Take my advice?”

 

Daryl watched her go, seeing her little wave as she hiked up the hill to the house, and not missing her broad smile before she turned and faced away. He stood up from the bench.

 

 

 

Daryl looked around the field cautiously. Just outside the walls of the settlement, plants that rose among thick follicles of grass were blinking sparsely with buds and flowers. Usually, he ignored the flora in favour of the animals that lived beneath: snakes, rabbits, mice, groundhogs all equal to the purpose of keeping him and his family fed. But today, his purpose was different, and he looked at the plants instead.

 

There were stems of cornflower, corydalis, columbines and chicory dotting the field, some flowers approaching the end of their seasons to give way to others. The columbines were all orange where the cornflowers remained their classic, persistent blue, the two colours contrasting pleasantly enough, Daryl mused as he picked them. He dipped down and snapped the stems near the base, the way his mama had taught him, to make sure he got the whole of the plant and damaged it the least. Plenty of plants were built to be cut down to the quick, growing back stronger the next season.

 

Stepping carefully to avoid rabbit holes, Daryl circled the field, an ear quirked to the surrounding woods to listen for approaching danger. He plucked the ubiquitous yellow buttercups that were threaded throughout the other specimens, bunching together the collection in his hand. The crushed stems began to wilt in his sweaty palm so he loosened his grip, cradling the flowers gently and sparing the delicate ends. He picked until his bouquet was big and full, but still fit in his hand. He stood, pulling his crossbow strap up on his shoulder and turning to go back into the settlement.

 

The gates slid open enough to admit him, falling closed behind him as he walked up the main walk. He didn’t waste any time, marching up to the block of trailers that stood in rows, white and unassuming. He spotted Jesus’s trailer with the doors and windows wide open to admit the warm spring air and sun, and only then did his nerves start to catch up with him.

 

Daryl’s knees started to quake and the blood rushed past his ears with a whooshing sound that reminded him of a running stream, but he didn’t stop walking, knowing any hesitation now would have him sprinting off in the direction he came. Nervousness came on him quick, but he only had to think about all the horrors he’d faced over the past few months and survived to put things into perspective, however fleetingly.

 

Just since coming to Virginia, he’d seen what he called home ransacked and burned and blasted wide apart no less than thrice. He’d fired an RPG at a gas-filled lake, only half-certain that the flames would not engulf him as well as the walkers that circled the pond. He’d sprinted into a clutch of enemy soldiers, fully expecting to be outflanked the second his fist connected with Dwight’s scheming chin, only to find Jesus Rovia bounding into the space at his side, fighting off dead and living alike in his aid.

 

This should be a piece of cake in comparison. So why did his mouth feel so dry, and his stomach like it was tied in a thousand knots?

 

Walking without stopping, knowing full well that a second of hesitation would be enough to send him bolting back out into the wilderness, or ducking into the nearest cellar to wait out the day, Daryl went on, bee-lining his way to Jesus’s trailer, which stood in a row of identical ones, lined up like teeth. He climbed the step and went to knock, seeing the door already ajar, a mosquito mesh across the doorway obscuring his form from view. Jesus was sitting on his bed, legs crossed as he read a book, brow furrowed in deep concentration as he scanned the pages. He didn’t notice Daryl’s near-silent approach, remaining entranced in the words on the paper.

 

Daryl stared for what could’ve been a few seconds, or maybe ten minutes, for how fast his heart was beating, just watching Jesus read. The man was beautiful, every inch of him contained and calm, eyes darting back and forth across the page beneath his furrowed brows. It took a hard minute of speculation for Daryl to realize that he wasn’t in fact cemented to the floor, and he shifted his weight from foot to foot on the top step of the trailer. The low creak of the wood was enough to catch Jesus’s attention, and his gaze snapped quickly to meet Daryl’s.

 

Massive blue eyes paralysed him, and Daryl stood dumbly at the door as Jesus placed the book gently down on the coverlet and climbed off of the bed. He didn’t say a thing as he approached, expression slightly concerned, brows raised. He spared Daryl his diplomatic smile, settling on a quietly inquisitive gaze instead, coming near enough to split open the screen door and stand just beneath Daryl’s eye line.

 

Time froze, and Daryl reached out his hand, wordlessly pushing the bouquet towards Jesus. Only then, as he watched Jesus take the flowers with slight confusion, did he realize how meagre the offering was. The multi-tiered columbines in orange and purple, flanked by spritely blue cornflowers and yellow buttercups framed Jesus’s chin as he held the bouquet across one arm, inspecting the flowers curiously. A loose collection of weeds was all it was, Daryl realized with growing anxiety, and felt his feet magnetize to the floor again.

 

 

Daryl opened his mouth a few times, words dying in his throat over and over as he tried to summon them forth. Nothing seemed adequate, all of the sudden, for the man in front of him. The man he’d watched tear the throat out of a walker whose gnashing jaws drew towards his own neck, pushed him aside in the midst of the cackling fray to finish the beast off. The man he’d seen holding Maggie while she sobbed into his shoulder in the dark of the evening, porchlight illuminating her shaking back, whispering sweetly into her ear. The man who currently stood, waiting ever patient, as if he could stand to do so until Daryl was ready, no matter the countless dragging seconds it took for him to speak.

 

“You wanna go t’dinner?” Daryl said, finally, squinting up at the porch light, which joined the sinking sun through the trailer’s far window.

 

Now it was Jesus’s turn to open his mouth, nothing but air departing his lips as he stared down at Daryl. His eyes were like saucers, now, massive and searching, and Daryl flinched a little as sound finally reached his ears.

 

“Y-yes,” Jesus answered, “yes, yes, I would,” he breathed, stroking a long lock behind his ear, which immediately fell back into place in front of his mouth. He quickly rubbed a finger beneath each eye to flick away tears, jaw slack with surprise and something else Daryl hoped to God was born of the massive _relief_ he felt too.

 

“Alright,” Daryl replied, “pick you up.”

 

Jesus nodded, standing in the doorway and inspecting his flowers as Daryl turned and left, posture remaining tall until he was out of sight, slipped behind a second trailer, where he almost collapsed. The weight of what he’d just done caught up to him all at once like a tidal wave and Daryl threw a hand over his mouth, falling against the wall of a nearby trailer shoulder-first.

 

Maybe this was a terrible idea. The desire to bolt rose up in him again, and Daryl’s eyes darted once more to the gates, looming and sealed, almost calling to him.

 

For one thing, he should’ve just taken Jesus with him right away, because now he was left with at least half an hour to cycle through his own thoughts while he waited for the sun to completely sink and properly hide his blushing face in the dim light of nighttime. He stumbled over to a section of garden and sunk to his knees against the retaining wall, made of sturdy railway ties that took his weight without creaking. What the fuck was he supposed to even do now? His clothes were in Jesus’s trailer, so he couldn’t even go in and change without looking like a complete fool. Not that he planned on changing; he only really had two shirts and both were equally battle-worn, and he doubted Jesus would really care which shade of dark blue he decided to wear.

 

At least he’d said yes.

 

Oh, God, he’d said _yes._

 

Daryl was so caught up in the anxiety-inducing newness of it all that he completely glossed over the fact that Jesus had actually agreed to go out with him. Or, at least, to go to dinner with him. To the shared dinner Hilltop’s residents always prepared outside Barrington over the fire pit and outdoor brick stove. The same ones they attended every single night spent in the settlement. Perhaps Daryl had been too vague.

 

He couldn’t exactly come out and ask for a _date_ ; the prospect was as mortifying as it was out of character for Daryl. Daryl wasn’t interested in going to a movie and making small talk over a plate of chicken Cordon Bleu—he’d rather spend the evening going for a walk around the walls, inspecting the place while peering occasionally up at the stars, only instead of alone, side-by-side with another person—but maybe that’s what a date was? Daryl wouldn’t know. Was Jesus going to be expecting something?

 

Could they hold hands, would such a thing be out of line, even just in the private embrace of their shared trailer? What would he do if Jesus wanted to kiss him? Dates often incurred that sort of impulse, or at least from what Daryl had heard. What if _Daryl_ wanted to kiss _Jesus?_

What if Jesus got fed up with him? The night would be long. How would their date end and just turn back into evening, especially when they went back to the same place to sleep? Maybe it wouldn’t end, and they would just keep “dating” throughout the night, while they slept, and continuing on when they woke. A date that never actually ended, just kept going, until an easy comfort of just grew between them and they were _together_.

 

Daryl liked the sound of that.

 

All of his fretting ate up plenty of time, apparently, and soon the sun was almost completely out of sight, giving way to a gradient of blues that travelled up into the stratosphere. Stars leaked into view, and Daryl tipped back his head, finishing his meandering around the garden boxes, staring up at the sky for a good while as he caught his breath again. His heart felt like it was beating nonstop without even a pause in between each beat and he only hoped it didn’t show on his face. He thought about taking a cigarette but the same question of possibly kissing Jesus sometime in the evening sprung up in his mind once again and he simply couldn’t stomach the taste of tobacco.

 

He trekked back to the trailer, this time less a man possessed than one condemned, dragging his feet, the prospect of Jesus’s rejection looming just until he spotted him. The man had already stepped out onto the porch and was carefully latching his screen door shut behind him to keep out bugs. Through the moonlight in his unlit home, Daryl saw his bouquet sitting on the table in a jar of water.

 

Jesus stood on the top step, looking down at Daryl who stood with his hands loose at his sides. The young man was wearing a fresh shirt, different than the sweater he donned before, this one light blue and with an open collar to permit the breeze against his skin. His neck practically shone beneath two curtains of hair, collar bone inching out from beneath the fabric, skin so utterly soft-looking it had Daryl’s palms sweating.

 

“Ready to go?” Jesus asked, pushing a stray lock behind his ear again. Daryl saw that his cheeks were rosy even in the dim light, his own angst slowly giving way to ease as Jesus smiled at him. An open smile, undiplomatic, intimate instead, and tinged with warmth.

 

Daryl gave a quick nod of his chin. Jesus descended the stairs, landing at Daryl’s side, their heights returning to the usual ratio, the top of Jesus’s head just reaching Daryl’s broad shoulders. Jesus stepped forward into the evening air. Daryl followed.


End file.
